


Siren Song

by eyepatchempress



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: F/F, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyepatchempress/pseuds/eyepatchempress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eto and you get very close. Perhaps more comfortable than you would have thought was a good idea. But in the end, everything falls in place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren Song

"You truly are quite fascinating.”

People walked briskly past the windows, little wind-up toys moving from place to place, like clockwork. No children, you noted. It was Wednesday, the lunch time rush, and while you would normally be a part of the crowds, you sat in a quiet café with a girl you had only met this morning.  
Her long green hair, like jade but softer, fell far past her shoulders. Her soft fingers played with a pair of round glasses that lay next to her drink, coffee, on wooden table. You preferred tea, but in a thoughtless motion you couldn’t help, you idly stirred your tea with a spoon. She was doing it as well.

"I don't quite understand," as the words left your mouth, they formed small waves on the surface of your tea. If your tea had still been warm enough to be creating steam, the steam would have flickered, like a poor attempt at putting out a candle.

"It's your eyes," the girl clarified, "they aren't everyday eyes. They’re an anomaly.”

The girl had approached you in the library, as you had browsed the non-fiction section.

"You're an interesting person," she had said. She stared down at you, who was crouched down on the floor, looking for the last book you needed before you could check out. The other handful books were in a messy pile, roughly the height of your knees, on the forest green carpet next to you. The carpet smelled like books, musty, but welcoming, and the carpet complemented the girl's hair nicely.

From this angle, the fluorescent lights appeared to give her a halo, and it was difficult to make out the details of her face.

"Please spare me an hour."

And you had, and she had taken you to a nearby café, that had mostly likely only opened for the people who were coming from the library. Its proximity to the university helped as well, as the café's customers were all in their early twenties.

"I would like to know more about you," she paused, "For my book. You seem like a very intriguing person."

"You're an author?"

"Yes,” she said, and that was it. A short, court answer to a question that should have gone somewhere more.

You wanted to know more, but you couldn't find the words to ask. She leaned in close to you, with a slight smile on her face, like the mischievous grin of a nymph or a fairy. The smile of a siren who would lead someone to drown in an ocean far from home.

"Have you ever killed someone?"

"No, I haven't." You took a moment to reconsider your automatic reply. "Do I look like I have killed someone?"

She shook her head, her eyes closed.

"You have a coldness in your eyes. It came from somewhere.” She nodded, in a way that might seem mechanical if anyone else had done it, agreeing with herself.

A thin layer of beige milk coated the bottom of the tea cup, just barely covering the intricate pattern that you wouldn't see. You didn't have to check your watch, rather you checked the window for the time. The stream of people had long since vanished, back into their buildings, wherever they had come from. It was closer to sundown than it was to high noon.

"I would like to keep talking," the girl gestured towards the tea cup. "Can we go somewhere else?" It wasn't a question; her tone was flat.

"I live close," you offered, "in an apartment building," 

She grinned wholeheartedly, and her happiness was almost warming. You barely noticed the opening and closing of the café door that let in pockets of cool late afternoon air.

You breathed in deeply, and you felt every square centimetre of your lungs filled up with the chilled air. The green haired girl walked beside you, her nose down in a worn notebook, jotting words down furiously. The pages looked more grey than white, and you wondered how she could continue to add words to the pages, let alone read what the pages said.

"That's your building," she gestured with her pencil towards a dull, brick apartment building. You took the statement as a question.

"It is. It's cheap and close to the university." You felt the need to excuse the lackluster appearance of the building. Although the inside was not significantly better.

"You, an interesting girl, live in an uninteresting building. Camouflage." She nodded.

You lived on the second floor, so as usual, you took the stairs instead of the elevator. You didn't completely trust the elevator, if you were completely honest with yourself.

"Apartment 201," she noted, as you unlocked the door and you both stepped inside.

"Tea or coffee?" You knew the answer.

"Coffee." 

You set the two cups down on your table, which wasn't stable. Thankfully though, it wasn't unbalanced enough to spill either of your drinks. You sat down on the sofa, the only seating in the apartment. You angled yourself towards her, but your feet remained on the ground. The girl's feet were on the couch, close to her chest, with her notebook balanced on her knees.

"Tell me your darkest secrets," she said, sinisterly, pencil in hand. You picked up your mug, and   
took a small sip. Her coffee remained untouched on the table.

"I don't have any," you confessed, "I'm a normal girl."

The girl moved towards you on the sofa, and was sat on her knees, looking at you. Your eyes met properly, for what felt like the first time, and your eyes searched hers. Like looking into an abyss, you were trapped by her eyes. If the eyes were a window to the soul, surely there was something wrong. Or perhaps, something was perfectly right and you being called towards this strange girl.

"Please bare yourself to me," the words were gentle, and without force. The plea sent a gust of air across your body, sending a shiver down your spine. She set the notebook on the ground without a sound.

Pale fingers, their tips covered with nail polish that matched her hair, and eyes by extension, touched your leg. Her nails were the perfect length: not long enough that they would scratch unprovoked, but not so short that they couldn't scratch at all.

"I would like to see your truest form," she spoke, and her hands were too friendly. You didn't say anything, or rather you couldn't saying anything. It didn't take long before they were no longer friendly, but were instead intimate.

"Let me unwrap your secrets.” Her hands swiftly revealed your bare skin. As your clothing disappeared, it was like it had disintegrated. Your clothes had caught on fire, and all that remained was the smoldering heat, and small sparks and ashes.

The girl bared herself in front of you, and moved on top of you, slowly and methodically. Her fingers slowly moved across your skin, before resting on your breasts. Her hands were the perfect size, as if you had been made specifically for this girl. Her hands, without a trace of a callous, had never lifted anything greater than a pencil her entire life. 

One of her hands migrated away from her chest, lower down your body, skimming your skin like the pages of a book she had read a million times but enjoyed every time.

"Tell me," she whispered, as her fingers roamed between your legs, welcoming the desire she had drawn from your depths. If you were asked to described the situation, you would struggle to do so. Surely the girl wasn't human: her actions were perfect without being calculating. Every touch was placed with intent, and the intent was always carried through. This is a spiritual experience, you considered. If only you could express it while doing it justice. 

Small sounds formed in your mouth, waiting to be freed. 

"I don't even know your name."

It wasn't a complaint, it was a statement or an observation.

"Eto." 

The two syllables rung out as she searched for the answers she was looking for. Her hand acting as encouragement, you told her every last detail of your life. Between sighs, you spoke softly, as if you didn't want to be caught.

It wasn't about the summers you spent at the beach, or the tears you had wasted over him, or the time behind the cabin when the councillors weren't looking, it was about sharing yourself with her.  
As you drew closer to this apartment, on this Wednesday, you felt as if you were drowning. You couldn't get enough air, and your toes curled trying to maintain your composure, even in death. The last bubble that left your lips came out as a muffled scream, even as Eto's fingers lingered, coaxing you through the last moments.

I've died and gone to Heaven, you thought, and Eto, this stranger, is greeting me at the gates.

You could practically see her wings.

Eto's damp, yet soft, hands pulled you close to her, and into sleep. You had both found something you didn't know that you needed until now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Personally, I don't think Eto gets enough love, being the best girl and all.
> 
> * I updated this (again!), just fixing the formatting (finally!). I think I'm happy with it now.


End file.
